


Beware, My Foolish Heart

by theheroofmystory



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Family, Friendship, Grief, Magic, Mourning, Small Appearances by Other Avengers, Unstable Wanda but Not Sexist Uncontrollable Crazy Wanda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-03-06 05:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18844468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheroofmystory/pseuds/theheroofmystory
Summary: Wanda Maximoff was the poster child for the American Dream: she had a devoted husband, a beautiful house with a white picket fence, and the quiet suburban life she never thought could be hers.But sudden glimpses into another reality threaten to tear apart the perfect life she's created for herself.[My idea of what the WandaVision series could be like. SPOILERS FOR AVENGERS: ENDGAME.]





	1. god only knows what I'd be without you

**Author's Note:**

> THIS CONTAINS _AVENGERS: ENDGAME_ SPOILERS. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

It was muggy and overcast the day the Maximoffs moved into their new home. The weather had entered that transitional period between spring and summer, humid and damp and inconsistent—weather that even the beautiful Arlington, Virginia wasn’t immune to. 

Their new home, Laurel Park, was a tiny suburb 10 miles from Washington, D.C. The people who populated it were mostly commuters who worked in the capital, but they preferred to maintain a cozy life away from the hustle and bustle of politics. Some of them had children; most of them were empty-nesters.

Wanda Maximoff and Vision were neither. 

The pair carried boxes into their new house as a slight drizzle came down and the sun shied away from them. Vision phased effortlessly, the raindrops falling right through him, and Wanda cast a glistening red shield above her head, a makeshift umbrella that the rain drummed against. 

The couple across the street peered out their windows, watching Wanda and Vision as they finished with their task and locked their moving van. Vision noticed their staring and waved. They let the curtains fall closed.

On their second day there, the neighbors started stopping by.

“Joanna Simpkins—you remember her, Jodi’s mother? Well, she says they’re Avengers. The weird witchy girl and the robot one,” Linda Guberman whispered conspiratorially to her husband. Her heels clacked loudly on the pavement as they made their way toward 1610 Astilbe Lane. 

Linda fancied herself the Best Baker in Laurel Park and a part of the Community Welcoming Committee, though neither were official titles. She’d never studied baking or even thought about owning a bakery nor had she taken any courses in neighborly etiquette. But spending many of her years as a stay-at-home mother had given her ample time to try new recipes and make her presence known, and though she now had plenty on her plate with her career in banking, she still took those lesser responsibilities very seriously.

“I believe they call him an android, dear,” Joseph Guberman corrected, scratching as his mustache. It was a nervous habit. “I’m not sure ‘robot’ is politically correct.”

Joseph Guberman was what they called a “pitbull.” He was a lobbyist for the National Rifle Association, and he could convince even the most steadfast beatnik to devote their life to the Second Amendment. His work acquaintances would be surprised to learn that he was much more docile in his home life—always tagging along on his wife’s Community Welcoming Committee duties. He was an honorary member.

The Gubermans paused as they reached the front porch.

The house itself looked perfectly normal. Two-levels, caramel-colored siding, a two-door garage, plenty of windows to let in the sunlight. They even had a white picket fence and a small white mailbox with “The Maximoffs” written in red cursive along the side. It was a near copy of every other house on the block, the kind of uniformity and normalcy one comes to expect from small city suburbs. 

A bit deceptive, Linda thought, given the home’s new residents.

She turned to her husband with a look of panic. “Do robots eat human food? Will they even want these?” She motioned to the large platter in her hands, covered in meticulously-sized sugar cookies. A few of them had “WELCOME” piped onto them in royal icing while others were simply sprinkled with sugar crystals.

“Android, sweetie. I’m sure the girl needs to eat. Either way, they’ll appreciate the gesture.” With a deep breath, Joseph reached a clammy fist forward and rapped on the door with his knuckles—five staccato knocks.

They waited. And waited a bit longer. There was no sound of footsteps.

“Maybe they aren’t home,” Linda offered. “We can always leave the cookies, and they can return the—”

The door cracked open with a soft creak, and one half of their new neighbors stood in the door frame. The Gubermans’ friendly expressions faltered just a bit as they took in Vision—light blue button-up, cashmere black sweater, well-tailored khaki pants, burgundy and teal skin, a yellow stone perched between his eyes. The news coverage hadn’t done him justice; he was equal parts majestic and intimidating.

Linda couldn’t decide if she should look in his eyes or in the stone. She read once that it was his “life force.” ( _Us Weekly_ ’s wording, not hers.)

“Good afternoon,” Vision greeted. “How may I help you?”

The Gubermans stared for a few silent seconds. Joseph scratched at his mustache. Then Linda remembered her manners.

“We just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” Linda said, laughing nervously. She shoved the platter toward Vision. “We brought cookies.”

“Thank you. Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

“Viz? Who is it?” Wanda appeared behind him, peering around his tall frame. She was smaller than she looked on the news. Her orange-hued hair fell to her waist in tangled waves, and her clothing was much more casual than her partner’s—a baggy gray v-neck; faded jeans that looked secondhand; an oversized cardigan, rolled up her forearms; combat boots with the soles peeling off. 

Linda hoped her expression didn’t convey her distaste. The Avengers paid well enough to live in a gated community but apparently not well enough to buy clothing with the tags still on.

The girl looked much younger than the android seemed to be, Joseph noted.

“My apologies. I haven’t introduced myself. I am Vision, and this,” Vision motioned to Wanda, “is my wife, Wanda Maximoff. And you are?”

“Joseph Guberman,” Joseph said, voice gruff, a macho defense mechanism he’d developed in college, “and my wife is Linda. It’s, uh, it’s very nice to meet the both of you.” He didn’t attempt to shake hands, keeping both arms at his sides. He wasn’t sure if androids were keen on human contact.

“It’s nice meeting you, too,” Wanda responded. “Do you live on our block?”

“Oh, yes,” Linda answered. “We’re five houses down. If you ever need to borrow some sugar or—or a wrench or anything, feel free to stop on by.”

“I’m sure we’ll take you up on that at some point.” Wanda smiled. 

“Would you like to see the house? Wanda has done a wonderful job decorating it in such a short amount of time.” Vision stepped aside, giving them a view of the foyer.

“Maybe another time. We have places to be and things to get done,” Linda told them with another laugh. “But it was so nice meeting you both.” She scurried off the porch, her husband trailing her.

“Joanna wasn’t wrong when she said they were odd,” she whispered to her husband when they were far enough away for her to feel comfortable gossiping. “Wasn’t he dead not too long ago?”

“Maybe they brought him back when they brought back the rest of us,” Joseph offered.

“But didn’t the Decimation kill half of all living creatures? Is a robot really—”

“Android.”

“Is an _android_ really considered a living creature?”

Joseph shrugged. “He’s living enough to have a nice home and a beautiful wife.”

Vision closed the door. “They brought us cookies,” he told Wanda. “That was very cordial of them.”

Wanda snorted, taking the platter from him. “No, it was _awkward_.”

“How so?”

“You couldn’t tell how uncomfortable we were making them? They couldn’t wait to get away from us.” Wanda picked at the cling wrap that was smoothed over the cookies. “I don’t think they’re used to neighbors who aren’t typical humans.”

“Ah.”

Wanda made her way back into the kitchen, setting the platter of cookies on their kitchen island, and went back to stirring the pasulj on the stove. She couldn’t exactly remember the last time she’d had it; it was back when she and Pietro had shared an apartment in Sokovia, back when he’d refused to ever cook because he knew he’d make a mess of it and that she was the sibling who’d inherited all their parents’ culinary gifts. She’d buy the fatty, smoked bacon and plump bread fresh that morning, and they’d sit at the kitchen table, dunking slices of bread into the soup, letting it soak up the broth before they bit into it.

It smelled just as good as she remembered it.

“What is this again?” Vision asked, peering into the pot as she stirred.

“Pasulj. White bean soup. It was one of Pietro’s favorites growing up. I figured it’d be a good celebratory meal.”

Vision leaned down and fanned the steam toward his nose, inhaling deeply. “I can understand why. It smells delicious.”

“It is.” Wanda scooped some liquid into her plastic spoon and slurped. She smacked her lips, savoring the flavor, before reaching over and tossing in a pinch more black pepper.

Vision wrapped his arms around her waist, body pressed to her back, and rested his head against her shoulder. She loved when he did that—held her, watched her work, let them relax into the silence that surrounded them. He never felt the pressures of small talk that humans usually succumbed to; he saw the beauty in letting their actions speak for themselves.

He pressed his cool lips to her cheek, and she tilted her head just enough for hers to meet them. He tasted like honey and copper. She tasted like nothing.

Vision pulled away and cocked his head. “Your resting heart rate is uncharacteristically high. Is something wrong?”

Wanda shook her head. “It’s nothing. Just nerves about being so far away from everyone and if our new neighbors will like us. I’ll be fine.”

A cool hand came to rest on her cheek, thumb grazing the corner of her lip. He gently urged her to turn until she faced him, her back to the stove. He took in her tense expression. “There is no reason to worry. The Avengers are more than capable of handling their own. And our neighbors have shown signs of surprise and mild discomfort so far, but, like you pointed out, that’s to be expected given who we are. I don’t believe they’ll cause us any trouble.”

“Why can’t I be as logical as you are? It’d make life a lot less stressful.”

“I like that you’re so emotionally motivated.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers again, picking up where they’d left off.

It took all of Wanda’s willpower to pull herself away from him. “Are you trying to make me burn dinner?”

“Of course not. I know you’ve put a lot of time into tonight’s meal. I apologize for distracting you.”

“Viz. I was only teasing. I love your distractions.” She initiated the kiss this time, leaning into him just long enough for their lips to fold together. “Now sit down and relax. I’ll be over in a minute.” She went back to stirring, nervously patting the pocket of her long cardigan with her free hand.

Vision sat down at their small, cozy kitchen table, crossing his legs and unfolding the bundled newspaper he’d picked up on his way inside. While his primary position in government was to pass communication between the president and the Avengers and make sure their relationship remained positive and supportive, he thought it essential he remain up-to-date on current events that could potentially impact his employment or employer.

He flipped aimlessly through the pages, taking in each of the headlines and picking and choosing which seemed most important or most interesting.

Wanda poured a few ladles full of soup into a bowl, grabbed a thick slice of bread, and sat down opposite Vision. She watched him as she ate, noting the complete composure on his face as his bright eyes scanned each headline. It was refreshing. The news and social media were rife with people blowing up at every bit of media coverage, yet Vision never let those emotions cloud his judgement. Only when it came to Wanda did his logic falter.

It was quite the compliment, she had to admit, to be loved so much that the most rational person on the planet threw rationality out the window when she was involved.

“How was your first day?” She asked, blowing on a spoonful of hot soup.

“It was mostly formalities to acquaint me with the White House and my new position—more or less what I expected.” His eyes stayed trained on the newspaper. He flipped to a new page.

Vision had left the house at 6:50 a.m. on the dot that morning. Wanda had watched from their porch as he grabbed his briefcase and gracefully lifted into the sky, flying over their neighbors’ homes on his new morning commute.

“How was your day at home?”

Wanda wrinkled her nose. “Uneventful.”

“No progress yet?”

Given their move, Wanda had decided—with Vision’s encouragement—to take a brief hiatus from the Avengers and focus on honing her abilities. She had a lot of raw energy and strength, and she knew it’d do her well to focus that energy more, to figure out new ways of using it. 

Vision was particularly interested in her tapping into her reality-bending, a facet of her powers she’d been avoiding since her regrettable days as an Ultron lackey. It felt invasive and cruel to use them.

But she knew he was right. So she spent her first morning alone sitting in their empty spare bedroom, legs crossed, arms poised in front of her. It took her an hour or two before she fully got the hang of it, and then she was creating little pockets of entirely new realities, whole new worlds that floated in front of her in fragile little bubbles.

She tried to focus only on the positives when it came to creating new realities—Pietro with his arm around the waist of a pretty young woman, a diamond ring on her left hand; her parents sitting in the front row of her and Vision’s wedding, wiping away tears as they watched her say, “I do;” an Earth that was stable and peaceful and didn’t need the Avengers’ saving.

But every so often, horrific images slipped in—intrusive thoughts she hadn’t realized she’d been harboring. A daunting purple figure, headed straight for her; Vision begging her to kill him, promising her it won’t hurt; her own body flaking away into dust.

Wanda decided to call it quits when the little bubble transformed from her and Pietro dancing at her wedding to her holding his bloodied corpse.

“No,” she lied. “No progress yet.”

“I’m sure there will be amazing progress to report soon.”

Wanda stared down into her soup, stirring and stirring, eyes trained on the swirl of the white beans. She put down her spoon and fidgeted in her chair. “Viz.”

Her husband didn’t look up, so transfixed in whatever he was reading that her voice didn’t seem to register. She cleared her throat loudly, and he lowered the paper, eyes meeting hers.

“Hm? My apologies. I—There’s an article in today’s paper that doesn’t make much sense.” His eyes moved back down the page he’d been stuck on.

“What’s it about?” Wanda asked, tapping her foot nervously on the floor. She’d let him explain, talk a bit about the day’s news, and then she’d tell him. God, she could barely hold it in.

“It’s about the public’s perception of Sam Wilson and his taking on the mantle of Captain America. But I… I can’t seem to remember Steve ever mentioning retirement.”

Wanda’s brow furrowed, and she motioned for the paper, tendrils of red picking it up off the table and floating it in front of her. A picture of Sam Wilson took up half the page; his usual goggles obscured part of his face, but his uniform had changed, red and white stripes covering his torso, a large white star emblazoned on his chest. Fastened to his right arm was Captain America’s shield, a glare cutting through the crest of American heroism.

“CAP 2.0: RECONCILING AMERICA’S ANTI-BLACK HISTORY WITH ITS NEW SYMBOL OF PATRIOTISM,” read the headline beneath it.

Wanda skimmed over paragraphs about Steve Rogers disappearing and Falcon taking on a new moniker and America’s perception of the Avengers in the wake of Tony Stark’s death. _Tony Stark’s death_.

A stabbing pain in her head cut through Wanda’s concentration, blurring her vision, and she let out a cry. She saw flashes of rubble, fire, smoke, and armies charging toward them. Metal weapons clanged against one another. Her powers took down massive creatures that crept through the foggy, dark skies. Bodies and debris littered the ground.

Vision phased through the table, coming to rest by her side. “Wanda?” Vision kneeled, hands resting on her thigh. “Wanda, are you all right?”

The newspaper in front of her was overwhelmed by her powers, folding in on itself until it was gone, nothing but wisps of red in its wake. And just like that, it was over. She was in her kitchen again, everything was clear, and there was only a dull pounding left in her head. The newspaper was gone. She wasn’t sure how that had happened; she hadn’t tried to destroy it.

“I…” Wanda wasn’t sure how to explain what had happened when she wasn’t even sure what it was. “I’m just exhausted from practicing earlier,” she settled on. It was easier than worrying him. She knew, if she’d told him the truth, he’d be up all night, scouring the internet for some kind of solution.

“Are you certain that’s all it was?” There it was, that rare glimpse of emotion that seeped through his typically composed demeanor. Wanda appreciated that she was able to give him a more complicated life, to give an android—someone people thought was so far removed from the human experience—emotions as strong as the ones she felt. But she hated that with those emotions came worries. She burdened him with her troubles. It wasn’t fair.

She reached out and pressed a hand to his cheek, smiling widely. “Yes, that’s all it was. Now, I have something important to tell you, but it can wait until later if you’d rather spend all dinner worrying about me.”

“What is it? Is it something to do with the Avengers?”

Wanda shook her head. She reached into the pocket of her sweater and wrapped her fingers around the pregnancy test. “Close your eyes.”

“Why would I need to do that?”

Wanda laughed. “Because that’s part of the fun of surprises. So close your eyes, hold out your hands, and trust me.” He followed her instructions in spite of his skepticism. She placed the pregnancy test in his awaiting hands, fingertips grazing his palm. “Now, open your eyes.”

Vision stared at the pregnancy test, holding it up in front of his eyes. “Two lines indicate pregnancy,” he said, voice wavering.

“They do.” Wanda couldn’t contain her excitement, her face breaking into a wide smile.

“We—I—We’re going to be parents,” he stumbled, laughing excitedly. “We’re having a child.”

He didn’t let Wanda respond before lunging forward and wrapping his arms around her. Wanda laughed as the chair teetered, and she tucked her head into his neck, closing her eyes and enjoying this moment while it lasted.

She’d seen this in her pocket realities, too, but it couldn’t compare to the look on his face, the tremor in his voice, the way he held her.

Vision pulled back and kissed her deeply. “Wanda,” he whispered against her mouth.

“We’re going to be parents,” she repeated, unable to think of anything else to say, mind too dizzy.

Vision stared into her eyes, smile wide, white teeth a stark contrast against his skin. “You’re going to be the most incredible mother.” And then he kissed her again and swept her up, levitating her far above their kitchen table, their heads nearly touching the ceiling. And they stayed like that for awhile, until their laughter and lightheaded giddiness finally subsided (but only just a bit).

\---

Wanda washed her face and brushed her teeth and pulled back her hair, all the usual parts of her nightly routine, but she couldn’t focus on it. Her eyes kept flickering back to Vision as he lounged in their bed—covers pulled over his legs, back against the headboard, book in his lap. If he wanted to, he could absorb a novel the length of _War and Peace_ in no more than ten seconds, downloading every word of it online at an unimaginable speed. But he enjoyed the tranquility of curling up in bed with a good book.

It was the little things like that made Wanda love him wholeheartedly. It would be so easy for him to reject all aspects of humanity, but he embraced them, even when he didn’t need to. He was so unlike anyone she’d ever met. He was so unlike anyone she’d ever meet again.

As a young girl, Wanda had never even entertained the thought that this life was possible. Watching their parents fall through a gaping hole in their kitchen floor had changed Wanda, and her childish dreams and ambitions had died with them. There was no time for wishing some knight in shining armor would come save her from her miserable life; she had to work long hours, pay monthly bills, find other odd ways to put food on the table for herself and Pietro.

She figured it would always just be the two of them. Sure, Pietro was fond of chasing after a new girl every week, but none of them had come close to being a serious relationship. Wanda was the only constant in his life, and he was the only constant in hers.

(Which reminded her that she needed to call Pietro and tell him the good news, but that could wait until tomorrow.)

And then Vision was born and they joined the Avengers, and her life was changed beyond anything she could’ve imagined. The Avengers had been her knight in shining armor, but it was Vision who helped her life in America truly feel like a home.

All those years ago, she’d thought no one would ever be as important to her as Pietro was. She was grateful to have proven herself wrong.

“I can feel you staring,” Vision said, eyes still focused on the pages of his book. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Wanda flicked off the bathroom light and crawled into her side of the bed, snuggling up beneath the thick blankets. Vision shoved a bookmark into his tattered used copy of _The Great Gatsby_ , turned off their bedside lamp, and moved to hover over Wanda.

His arms flanked either side of her head, and he leaned down, gently pressing his lips against hers. It was a slow kiss, the kind that built up tension from the faintest of touches and most deliberate movements. He parted her lips with his tongue, his breath warm against her skin, and Wanda wound her arms around his back, tracing the creases in his skin that differed from the smooth backs of humans. She loved those differences, loved that he felt so unlike any other man she’d kissed or touched.

She pulled away with a chuckle as his mouth moved to her cheek and her neck, peppering kisses along the way. “You don’t have to try so hard. I’m already pregnant.”

Vision laughed and pulled away but stayed close enough that his face was all she could make out. “I love you,” he whispered, so quietly that she could barely hear the words, her eyes instead following the shape of his mouth—lips parted, tongue flicking against his palate, lips slightly pursing on the final vowel sound.

She could see him in a forest, on his knees, a red beam flowing from her palm to the stone in his head. He was utterly composed, eyes focused on her. “I love you,” he whispered, inaudible over the chaos erupting around them. And then the stone in his head splintered and sent cracks like ripple effects across his face. His eyes closed. His face relaxed. And a burst of light blinded her.

Wanda gasped, her head hammering like something was trying to burst its way out, and Vision’s smile faltered.

“I’m fine,” she told him before he could ask any questions. “It’s just headaches from the hormonal changes. It’s really nothing.”

Vision stared at her for a minute before trusting her assessment and rolling back onto the mattress.

Wanda watched as he relaxed, covers up to his waist and hands folded against his stomach. He closed his eyes, and within seconds, he was out, deep into a night of dreamless sleep.

Wanda stayed like that, staring at him, as her hands shook and lips quivered. She’d seen him dying, and it felt like deja vu. Like she’d already seen it, already felt the sharp sting that came with his destruction.

Soft moonlight filtered into their bedroom as Wanda laid back, closed her eyes, and willed herself to relax. That night, she dreamed of nothing but that look of total acceptance as Vision’s skull erupted into light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then! Things have officially kicked off! Who would've thought that Endgame would get me back into fanfic writing after a 6 (or more) year hiatus?
> 
> I plan for this to go in even stranger and more magical directions from here, taking some inspiration from the comics and movies while making things my own. I hope you stick around, that you like it, and that it scratches and itch you have for more Wanda Maximoff in your life.
> 
> Let me know what you think so far in the comments! Feedback is so very useful to us writers.


	2. nobody can deny there's something there

Wanda stared at the seafoam green walls of their spare-bedroom-turned-nursery. Pietro had happily taken on the responsibility of decorating the baby room—painting the walls, building the cribs, filling up the dressers with spare diapers and baby socks and an adequate stock of bibs. He’d been particularly proud of his clothing contributions: two identical onesies that read “If you think I’m cute, you should see my uncle.”

The room alone was nicer than any of the apartments she and Pietro had lived in together, including the one they’d been raised in. They’d shared a room, just like her twins would, but it was the only room in their tiny home. The joint living room and dining room was where her parents slept—on a pull-out couch with a thin mattress.

Their decaying little apartment was filled with so many wonders for them. They would pick loose paint off the walls and collect it in tiny piles, rearranging the flakes into shapes, creating earthly constellations on the scuffed hardwood floor. They’d listen to their neighbors through the thin walls, taking guesses as to what they were arguing about now and whether they’d still be worked up in the morning. And when their parents would refuse the big dinners their mother prepared for them, instead choosing old bread and stew and the least desirable bits of the animal, they’d shake their heads over their parents’ picky appetites and tiny stomachs.

It wasn’t until they were alone, until they were charged with looking after themselves, until they were eating meal after meal of crusted bread and tough meat, that Wanda came to realize all their parents had done and sacrificed for them.

She was grateful her children would have an easier life than she did.

“You’re naming one after me, yes?” Pietro kneeled on the floor in front of Wanda and the rocking chair, head level with her plump stomach. He ran a hand along its smooth surface, over the hump of her protruding belly button, over to the left where he’d last seen her skin ripple as one of the twins got comfortable. He refused to get up until he felt movement.

“Sorry to disappoint, but naming one of them after you would be willingly cursing myself.”

“Cursing yourself?”

“I don’t need another Pietro in my life to give me hell.”

He grinned up at her, shaggy silver hair falling into his blue eyes. “Okay.”

Her brows shot up. “That’s it? You’re not going to try to convince me otherwise?”

Pietro shrugged. “At least I have little Nate Barton to carry on my legacy.” He resumed his stomach gazing.

Wanda loved watching him with her children (even if he wasn’t actually _with_ them yet). He looked at her belly as lovingly as she did, touched it as tenderly, was just as absolutely enthralled by how her body had created and nurtured new life. He’d cried when she and Vision told him he’d be their boys’ godfather, their _kum_ ; he’d tried to hide it, hand blurring as he wiped the tears away quickly before they could fall, but when he’d accepted, his eyes had been unusually glassy.

“Do you have names picked out yet?”

Wanda rested her hands on the top of her stomach. She was only five months along, but the twins had already completely transformed her body. “Viz likes Thomas and William.”

A dissatisfied noise left Pietro’s mouth. “So American. Why not Zoran and Milan?”

“Yes, because the world needs _more_ Zorans and Milans.”

“The world doesn’t need more Thomases and Williams either,” he countered.

“Vision likes them.” Wanda hadn’t even considered baby names when Vision had walked in from work three weeks ago, set down his briefcase, and proclaimed that Thomas and William were strong, professional names for boys. “They’re normal.”

“Normal is boring.”

“Maybe to you.”

Pietro jerked back. Wanda looked down as a little foot pushed against the thin skin on her stomach; she could just barely make out the curve of the foot and five tiny toes. Wanda reached out a finger and pressed against the foot, and it disappeared just as quickly as it’d come.

Pietro laughed. “Wanda, tell your sons to be nicer to their _kum_.”

Wanda placed a hand over the spot where her son had kicked and whispered, “Kick away. He deserves it.”

The rocking chair’s footrest gently swayed as Pietro climbed onto it, elbows on his knees, arms dangling between his wide-spread legs. He stared at her with an awed smile. “In a few months, you’ll be a mother.”

“Mm.” Wanda rested her head against the back of the chair, eyes set on the white ceiling. “Do you think they’ll be like us?”

“Oh, I _guarantee_ they’ll be as handsome as I am and as annoying as you are.” 

“I'm being serious, Pietro." She rubbed her hands down the length of her belly. “Do you think I can pass on my powers?”

“I hope so.”

His answer surprised her. “Why?” Vision’s name choices had been a deliberate choice, and her approval had been her mutual agreement that they’d raise their boys in a normal life, despite their parents’ abnormalities. The thought of either of them—or, god forbid, both—taking after her made her queasy.

Pietro sat up straighter. “Where would we be without these powers, huh? Living in some crumbling apartment in Sokovia? Taking on odd jobs to make enough money to eat, to buy secondhand clothes? Pretending that life was good because we had each other, even though we were both miserable?”

“I know all of that.” There was a hint of annoyance in her voice.

“Then why do you worry?”

“Because we made that choice for ourselves. We joined Hydra and changed who we were because we thought it’d be better for us.”

“And it was.”

“No, it wasn’t! We did terrible things. We almost destroyed Sokovia, our home, and then we came back here and… And it was easy for you. You fit in, you were applauded for being a hero, but I made mistakes and had to pay for it. I went through hell before I learned I didn’t need their acceptance and moved on.” Wanda cupped her stomach. “I can’t put them through that.”

There was no stopping the cruel headlines and cable news segments that flickered through her mind each time she thought of it—a rolodex of every hurtful thing anyone had ever said about her because of what she was. And while she’d learned to fight against their fears and embrace what she’d become, she couldn’t imagine cursing her children with that same heavy burden she’d given herself. They didn’t deserve that.

Pietro’s face softened. “But you needed that.” Wanda bristled but stayed silent. “I know I sound like Steve, but you grew from all of that bullshit.” He reached out and placed a hand over her tensed ones. “Our powers gave us everything good in our lives except each other. Maybe they could do that for the boys, too.”

Her fingers curled around Pietro’s, and one of the twins kicked.

“ _Wanda!_ ” A voice screamed, hoarse and aged.

Wanda clutched at her head, temples throbbing. The voice echoed in her skull, louder than her own thoughts. 

“Wanda?” Pietro reached out to touch her face. Her brows wrinkled. “Are you—”

Pietro froze where he was and shook violently, eyes bulging and unblinking, hands vibrating so quickly that Wanda could barely see them. His question remained unfinished, nothing but a low gurgling coming from his parted lips. Blood pooled in his mouth, seeping between his teeth and dripping down his chin.

“Pietro?”

“ _Wanda_!”

Her stomach rolled, dipping low and rising to peaks in painful waves of skin and fabric. Tiny feet and hands pressed against her skin, resisting the waves and trying to claw their way out of her gut.

“ _Wanda Maximoff!_ ”

“What?” Wanda shouted, and her stomach stilled, smoothing again into a firm bulge, belly button popping out.

“So how set are you on Thomas and William?” Pietro’s concern for her and his violent fit were long forgotten. He sat there, arms crossed, hair messy and falling into his eyes in the way that had always bothered her. The crease that formed by his right eyebrow anytime anything happened to her was smoothed out; instead, his right brow was lifted, his lips curled into a smirk. He put his hands up defensively. They were still, not even a slight tremble. “I know, I know, my name is a curse, but what about for a middle name, yes? Middle names are very American.”

Wanda’s chest rose and fell quickly as she tried to catch her breath. She leaned forward and laid a hand against his cheek. There it was again—the worried crease along his right brow. His dark stubble scratched her palm.

“What is it?” he asked. It was like nothing had happened to him. He was completely unaware of it.

Wanda pulled her hand back, resting it atop her belly. She didn’t want to tell him. He’d worry about her the same way Vision did, though his worry manifested in less subtle ways. He didn’t subscribe to the gentle fawning and monitoring and researching that Vision was fond of; instead, Pietro would refuse to leave her house and pester her incessantly, driving her nuts with his questions. 

“I like the sound of William Django.”

Pietro smiled, long dimples sprouting along his cheeks. His eyes crinkled. “Dad would love that.”

“I know.” She rubbed a hand along her stomach and felt it flutter. “Here.”

Wanda grabbed his hand and placed it where the movement was. The laugh he let out was the kind that refused to be held back, the kind that used to force its way out of him when he was a little boy and their dad would tickle him mercilessly. It was contagious, eliciting a laugh from Wanda—one that was gentler, calmer.

His eyes met hers. “William Django and Thomas Pietro.” He held her eyes, daring her to correct him.

“William Django and Thomas Pietro. I could grow to like that.”

He laughed again.

\---

Sitting cross legged in the nursery, stomach dipping into the space between her legs, Wanda watched herself. Her eyes were fixed on the pocket reality in front of her, ringed in glistening red, filled up with the image of her and her husband. He wore a gray tuxedo, a small bundle of sweet forget-me-nots pinned to his lapel.

Their wedding had been surprisingly conventional for such an unconventional couple.

With no father to ask for Wanda’s hand in marriage, Vision had altered the custom and asked the closest person in the Maximoff family line—Pietro. Pietro had made him wait an excruciating 25 hours, 12 minutes, and 16 seconds before telling Vision that he wasn’t Wanda’s keeper and Wanda could do as she pleased (but that he approved regardless).

They’d been married outside the Avengers Headquarters in a garden area set up specifically for them.

Natasha had helped Wanda get into her gown that morning. The off-white lace curled over Wanda’s collarbones and chest, relaxing into an a-line at her waist and pooling at her feet. It was soft to the touch and more elegant than anything she’d ever worn. No dark, drab colors; no holes she patched up with a slightly bent needle and excess thread; no layers to keep her warm when their heating broke and Pietro couldn’t pick up enough hours to get it fixed.

She’d closed her eyes and listened to the Russian folk songs Nat hummed as she pieced her together. She’d pretended it was her mother’s rough, nimble hands zipping her up and fixing her hair. When Pietro met her outside her bedroom—looking more handsome and put-together than she’d ever seen him—she’d pretended he was her father, wiping away tears as he took her arm and gave her away.

Wanda watched herself like an outsider, watched as her past self mouthed “I do,” as she leaned in to slip a wedding band on Vision’s left ring finger and to press a kiss to his lips. There was a haze coating the image—an air of artificiality that separated it from the memories in her head.

She moved her hands, fingers curling, and the image changed to her and Vision on the dance floor. They hadn’t planned to have a first dance—neither one being particularly fond of dancing or attention—but their guests had been insistent. So he’d taken her hand in his, placed his palm on the small of her waist, and spun her around the dance floor. Wanda couldn’t even remember what song had been playing; she was too wrapped up in him.

They’d snuck away not long after, back to his bedroom with its perfectly made bed and plain decorations. The only hints of personality were the used book on the bedside table and the framed photograph of Wanda resting behind it. He’d taken that picture on a rare day outside the facility, her hair knotted and blowing in her face, her expression slightly blurred as she laughed and turned to look at him.

He’d insisted on placing that photograph on their bedside table in Virginia. “It’s radiant,” he’d told her, moving it until it was placed just right. “That way I’ll see it every morning,” he’d explained.

Wanda stared, mesmerized, at the image of the two of them. They were more graceful than she’d realized. They twirled and twirled as the real Wanda’s fingers moved, and then the image shifted. Wanda watched herself dancing, still, but it was Pietro waltzing with her now. She was wearing a formal black dress, and he donned a classic tuxedo. His hair was slicked back, face freshly shaven. They’d both aged.

A wedding band shone on his left ring finger.

This one was all Wanda, a reality that had never been, that only existed in the little bubble that levitated in front of her. But it represented what could be, one day.

“I’ve never seen you this happy,” she watched herself say. This smaller, older version of her had a muffled voice, like she was talking in another room. Her pocket realities were getting weaker after hours of practicing them.

“I’ve never been this happy.” He spun them in sloppy circles, taking her by surprise. Then he leaned down and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “Wanda,” he whispered against her hair. “Tell me—why? Why did you let me die?”

Blood seeped through the white of his dress shirt. It dripped down the hand that gripped Wanda’s, warm blood oozing over her fingers and making her hand slip. He lurched forward, falling into her, and she screamed, calling for someone to help her.

They were alone.

She set him down on the ground as gently as she could, but as his head hit the floor, his appearance shifted.

He was young again, face peppered with stubble. He was wearing the outfit Hydra had given him, the blue shirt and black pants stained with large spots of red. “Wanda,” he said, reaching out to touch her face. Blood smeared across her cheek. “Why?”

She cradled his body, forehead pressed against his, rocking back and forth as she sobbed.

His body flickered—from him, in his blue attire, to Vision, in all black-and-white. But she didn’t change, clinging them to her as she cried so hard that she gasped for air. Makeup smudged under her eyes. Spit dripping from her mouth.

“ _Wanda!_ ” The voice was closer this time, no longer echoing inside her skull but filling up the nursery with its boom.

Wanda’s pocket reality collapsed in on itself, Pietro and Vision’s corpses disappearing in a blaze of red, and she turned toward the voice.

The woman standing before her was old, deep folds in her face dragging her skin downward. Her hair was stark white, whiter than Pietro’s, and fluffed around her head like the golden halos in the Orthodox paintings that covered the church walls where she was baptized. Her clothing was from a time long forgotten—a deep violet dress that covered her entirely, from her neck to her wrists and ankles; an antique pearl button sewn onto the fabric covering the nape of her neck; a deep blue shawl that draped over her elbows and fell down to her knees.

“Well, thank the gods. I thought I’d never get ahold of you.” She looked Wanda up and down, staring at the bulging stomach that hung low. “You’ve gotten fat since the last time I saw you.”

Wanda hands glowed, red crawling up her fingers to her wrists, and she held them in front of her defensively. “What are you doing here?”

The woman laughed. “You can relax, Wanda. I’m here to warn you, not to harm you.” 

Wanda kept her hands held high. “Warn me of what?”

“They’ll be here soon to help protect you, but you need to be on high alert. They claim you’ve been drawing an awful lot of attention in your new home.” The woman looked around the freshly painted nursery. She didn’t seem particularly charmed by it.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

The woman huffed. “Please, child—the Witches of New Salem. I know they aren’t the flashiest of organizations, but I assumed they’d made a fair enough impression on you.”

A keening scream rang in Wanda’s ears, and she could smell smoke—thick and smothering—and hear the shouts of a husky, female voice. “ _GO! If you stay any longer, you’ll be dead._ ”

The next voice was her own, voice mutated by the scream that continued to reverberate in her head. “ _They’ll kill you._ ”

“ _I’ve lived long enough. It’s about time I move on to the next plane of existence. Now go before they burn you, too._ ”

“You don’t remember, do you?” The same voice that had urged her to go now rang out in front of her. It was clearer now—closer. “You’ve forgotten it all.” The woman reached out her hand and placed it against Wanda’s cheek; it was ice cold and shocked Wanda like a livewire had been placed against her skin.

Suddenly, Wanda was sucked into her own mind, transported to a memory of herself and the old woman. They kneeled across from one another, hands raised in front of them, palm-to-palm. Wanda’s deep red powers circled their hands, but there was something else there—sparks of gold energy that made the red glow brighter. The woman smiled at her, eyes wide with admiration.

And just as quickly, she was back in the nursery.

Wanda recoiled from the woman’s touch.

“I’ll try not to be offended,” the woman quipped.

“Who are you?” Wanda’s voice was shakier than she’d expected.

The woman smiled, gentle and sweet. “Darling, I’m the person who knows you best.”

Wanda sucked in a deep breath. “Funny. You don’t look like my husband.”

“Husband?”

There was a boom as the front door open and closed, and Vision’s footsteps padded down the hallway. “Wanda?”

Wanda wanted the woman to stay where she was, for Vision to see her and help Wanda fill in the apparent gaps in her memory, but instead, she told her, “You need to leave. Before he comes in.”

Deep wrinkles blossomed between the woman’s thick, white brows. “Child, heed my warning. The Witches of New Salem will not harm you. Let yourself be found, and they will protect you from him when he—”

The doorknob to the nursery turned. Wanda waved her hands, and the woman disappeared. The force of it made the drapes sway and the rocking chair tip back and forth.

Vision smiled when he saw her, and the way his face lit up relaxed Wanda’s tense muscles. She was with him now. She was safe.

“I thought you might practicing,” he said, bending down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “How has it been going today?”

“It’s going,” she responded, trying to keep her voice steady. You don’t need to worry him, she told herself, repeating it like a mantra. The thought of keeping things from Vision made her stomach churn, but she knew deep in her gut that she needed to make sense of everything before she brought him into it.

She allowed Vision to help her up, to guide her to the living room, to place her on the couch as he retreated to the kitchen to cook for her. His food was never very good, always undercooked or slightly burned or too easy on the spices, but her body was tired and her mind was muddied and she couldn’t be bothered to cook for herself.

The television covered her in a soft blue glow, and she watched as a conventionally attractive woman called forward a conventionally attractive man and pinned a rose to his brightly patterned blazer. He moved back to a small cluster of men who all looked eerily similar to him, and the woman called another one forward (the only real difference the color of his blazer) and repeated the pinning.

It was all so mundane—reality television that showcased a reality so foreign to her. Their lives were so simple, the only cause of tears the lack of a rose or the fear of hurting someone’s feelings. She longed for that simplicity.

Wanda’s stomach rumbled, and she reached down to place a hand on the straining skin, calming it. Hoping she could stop it from rippling and aching like it had earlier. Hoping that, through sheer willpower, she could protect her sons from whatever had caused her such distress, from whatever she apparently needed protecting from.

Vision came into the room with a simple sandwich—two slices of wheat bread, a thick turkey center, meticulously cut tomatoes and cheese slices placed on top the meat. Wanda sat up and took the plate from him, staring down at the food that made her stomach recoil.

She couldn’t eat. Not when there was so much she needed answered.

Vision sat behind her, posture stiff, and curiously watched the television. “They’re all fighting for her affections?”

“Mhm.” Her fingers picked at the bread crust.

“That doesn’t seem like the most ethical or responsible way to search for love.”

“No.”

Vision placed a hand on her thigh. “I’m grateful I never had to subject myself to such desperate measures to meet you.” He was teasing her. He smiled.

Wanda tried to smile back.

The bubbly brunette on TV beamed at the handful of men who stood before her. “Here’s to going to our hometowns next week!” She lifted her champagne flute high. “Here’s to meetin’ the people who made you who you are, and to y’all finally meeting my mama and daddy and Grammy—”

Her face froze. The flute shook, champagne sloshing over the sides and down her hand. It bubbled loudly. “Agatha.” The brunette turned to the camera, eyes fixed on Wanda, holding her gaze. “Agatha.” The name forced itself out of her mouth, voice growing louder. “Agatha. Agatha. Agatha. Agatha. Agatha.”

Wanda realized with a start that she remembered the old woman after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this one. I kept hemming and hawing over it, but I finally decided that I'm being way too picky and just need to let it go and post it. So here it is!
> 
> It's been over four years, and I still mourn the loss of Pietro Maximoff in the MCU (rip). So I decided that this story wasn't worth writing if I couldn't find a way to bring him back. There'll be more Vision in the next chapter, along with some familiar faces.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know your thoughts in the comments.


	3. don't worry. baby; everything will turn out alright

It’d been an interesting experience for a young Wanda Maximoff, learning about the birds and the bees.

She had spent the morning outside with Pietro, sitting on their apartment steps as he ran around with friends, an old paperback in her lap. Her sweaty fingers clung to the pages as she flipped through them, thumbs and forefinger warping the paper, leaving damp, oval imprints in each yellowing page.

Summers in Sokovia were always brutal. The sun was hot and thirsty, drawing the moisture from her skin. She shivered at each drop that curved its way down her spine, slipping into the waistband of her denim shorts. Her mother had recently taken out her beloved needle and thread and stitched tiny, colorful flowers over the pockets of them. Her sweat darkened the faded denim.

When Pietro and his friends grew too rambunctious, their voices and soccer antics too distracting for her to focus on her novel, she’d retreated back inside. Her stomach ached, hungry for food and sore from being hunched over for hours, and her skin had darkened, her cheeks rosy from the sunlight.

She’d gone into the bathroom for a cool shower and found a peculiar stain of red at the bottom of her shorts. No matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn’t get the embarrassing dark red out of them, and she cried, worried her mother would punish her for ruining the shorts she’d spent hours stitching for her.

But when Wanda showed her the stain with teary eyes, her mother had beamed. She took Wanda’s chubby cheeks into her hands and proclaimed that she was a woman now. A woman at nine years old; that made Wanda cry harder.

And so her mother had sat her down and given her a lesson in adulthood. She’d explained every bit of it, never the one to shy away from gory details. All of it sounded wholly unappealing, each detail growing more disgusting, until Marya Maximoff got to the supposedly wondrous occasion that was childbirth.

Marya’s eyes softened, and her lips curled into a nostalgic smile. “It was the worst pain I have ever felt. I thought you two would kill me.”

Wanda’s brows knitted together. “Then why are you smiling?”

Marya laughed. “Because it’s worth it. Every ache, every pain, every rip and tear—every bit of it was worth it once you two were out and in my arms. Pietro came first, loud and angry, like he is when you wake him from a nap. Then came you, _mišiću_. You were so quiet that it frightened me. The doctor patted you on the back, cleared your throat, and you let out these little noises—soft but strong. While Pietro screamed in my arms, you stayed quiet in your father’s. Just staring at him, like this.”

Marya’s eyes grew wide, barely blinking, and Wanda laughed.

Marya reached out a hand and brushed it through Wanda’s short dark hair. Her mother’s hands were rough, aged; she had the hands of a woman twice her age, knuckles thick and finger stiff from years of using them to cook, to clean, to sew, to make a living. They were cool against Wanda’s hot skin.

“I don’t think I want to have children,” she confessed, and Marya burst into laughter, voice rising and falling like an orchestral piece. It was a beautiful sound, one of Wanda’s favorites. There was a joy in her mother that reminded her so much of Pietro. He’d inherited her joy, her confidence, her fire. Wanda was more like her father; she’d inherited his concentration, his passion, his temper.

“Please, _mišiću_ , you would do that to your mother? Keep me from having grandchildren?” There was a brightness to her eyes, betraying the seriousness of her words.

“Pietro can have children.”

“And what will you do with your life?”

Wanda hadn’t given that much thought. She hadn’t given children any thought either, until she realized the horrors that came with conception and birth. “I’ll move to America.”

Marya’s brows raised. “America?”

“Yes.” Wanda’s chest puffed up. She was onto something. “And I will work hard and make lots of money, and I’ll buy a house for you and _tata_ to move into. And maybe I’ll let Pietro live with me, if he promises not to bother me or make a mess of things.”

Marya’s smile made Wanda beam back at her. She patted Wanda’s cheek. “Spoken like a true woman.”

By the time Wanda set foot on American soil, they were gone—nothing but bones in a Sokovian cemetery filled with other Maximoffs and Kovacs.

But she’d moved to America like she’d vowed to, even after years of hating it and cursing it and protesting against it, and Pietro had come with her. She’d moved into a beautiful house in Arlington, Virginia. And, despite her younger self’s disinterest, she was pregnant—stomach bulging so far that she could no longer tie her shoes or see her feet or push herself up off the floor.

Her mother would be a grandparent, finally, but she’d never get to see them.

Wanda looked down at the photograph cradled in her hands. The frame was worn, bits of the silver paint rubbed off to reveal the dull black underneath.

It was the only picture she had of all of them. She and Pietro were six years old, based on the faded year scribbled on the photo’s backside. Their parents stood behind them, shoulder-to-shoulder. Her mother was smiling so widely that Wanda couldn’t see her eyes, but her father stayed stoic, lips pressed in a straight line. Pietro stood in front of their mother, right leg kicked out, arms crossed, face screwed up in a humorously defiant expression. Wanda clung to her dad’s leg, cheek pressed against his hip, face expressionless but softer than her father’s was.

She’d tucked it away in the cardboard box marked MISCELLANEOUS because it was difficult to look at. Each time she saw their faces, all she could think of was her last view of them: father, facedown, arms bent at strange angles, both legs missing from mid-thigh down; mother, staring up at Wanda with half-open eyes, gut split open, red pooled around her head.

Wanda placed it on the bedside table, next to the photo of her that Vision loved so much, and carried on with the unpacking.

She was meant to take it easy now. Her doctor said she was a month shy of her due date, and twins were customarily early, too crammed in such a tight space to hang around for the full nine months. She could feel them getting antsy.

So she’d dedicated herself to staying indoors and going through their final box of belongings—the one she’d put off for months now. Most of it was sentimental, things from her life in Sokovia that she hadn’t wanted to face. Things she couldn’t bear to look at when she was on such a high from marriage and moving and pregnancy.

Her fingers wrapped around the cracked leather of an old journal. Pietro had given it to her for her sixteenth birthday; he’d found it for cheap at the local market, the leather already aged and splitting. A few pages were torn from the front, but there were at least a hundred that Wanda had filled up with the contents of her rebellious teenage mind. 

She flipped through the Cyrillic lettering, running her fingers along the ink that she’d smudged in spots in her hastiness to get her thoughts down. It was filled with so many moments she’d forgotten about—the day Pietro had started a fire in their kitchen trying to cook for her when she was sick, the day she’d been shoved at a protest and Pietro had gotten into a fist fight to defend her, the day they’d found out about the Hydra testing that they’d eventually turn themselves over to.

Her entries ended there—a collection of her worries about how the testing could go, about the risky situation she and Pietro were getting themselves into. Her past self wondered if it was all worth it but quickly decided (with a gentle push from Pietro) that it was if it meant she could save Sokovia. 

But Sokovia hadn’t been saved, the foreign intervention hadn’t ended, and Wanda sat on the floor of her American home, far removed from the cause she’d once fought so valiantly for. She tried not to think about it too hard.

Wanda flipped through what remained, a thin sliver of blank pages. As the final page flapped closed, exposing the inside of the back cover, a patchwork of scribbled words caught Wanda’s eyes. It was the same word written over and over again on the back page, filling up every inch of it.

 _CHTHON_ , it read. It was scratched in so forcefully that the letters ripped through the paper in spots, leaving streaks behind on the page before it.

The book shook in Wanda’s hands, and the ground quaked beneath her. Her bedroom walls trembled, and the picture of her family tumbled to the ground with a crack, the glass shattering. 

She could see a mountain, cloaked in moonlight, and she watched as a dark-haired woman cradled two children close to her chest, whispering for them to quiet down. The mountain glowed; the children howled louder. Strangers approached them.

“ _GO!_ ” Agatha’s voice shouted in her head.

She felt a dampness between her legs as the quaking subsided, and Vision rushed into the bedroom, kneeling by her side. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” The journal was gone.

Vision looked around them, taking in the broken picture frame on the floor and the relative normality of the rest of their room. “The earthquake doesn’t seem to have caused much damage, and the structural integrity of the house remains.” He turned back to Wanda and pushed her hair out of her face. When his eyes wandered down to her stomach, he let out a soft “oh.”

Wanda looked down at the water soaked into the cotton of her pants and pooled on the hardwood floor. It was so much more than the movies made it seem.

“I believe your water broke.” Vision’s voice was unusually uneven.

Wanda keeled over in pain, a jagged cramp shooting through her abdomen and forcing the air out of her lungs. She groaned loudly, and Vision grabbed her arm. When her eyes met his, he looked absolutely dazed. “Viz… it’s time to go to the hospital.”

Without another word, he scooped her into his arms and carried her into the night.

. . .

Billy was the smaller of the two. He was 4 pounds, 10 ounces, and she could tuck him perfectly into the crook of her arm, his tiny head—covered in wisps of brown hair—resting against her bicep. Despite his size, he was louder than his brother, letting out wails that made Wanda’s head throb and eyes water. He was loud and aggressive, and when she put him to her breast, he fed hungrily and intently, so much so that it left Wanda sore and bruised.

Tommy was bigger, but not by much. He weighed a healthier 5 pounds, 6 ounces, and his arms and legs were plump with rolls. His irises were so clearly blue that they nearly blended into the whites of his eyes, and his hair was a striking white, not dissimilar to the light hair of his kum. He was quieter than his brother, but when he was hungry or sleepy or had soiled his diaper, he let his anger be known with loud outbursts—staccato screams for help.

Vision couldn’t stop staring at them. They looked nothing like him—both taking entirely after their mother’s human side—and the sheer ordinariness of their fair skin and rosy cheeks and pruney fingers brought tears to his eyes.

“We created them,” he marveled as he cradled Tommy in his arms, rocking the sleeping boy in fear that the lack of motion would wake him up. He’d already made it clear he liked the constant movement. “They’re ours.”

“They’re ours,” Wanda repeated. 

The labor had been an excruciating blur. When the nurses congratulated her and placed her children in her arms, what her mother had told her years ago finally clicked; every bit of pain Wanda had felt was worth it because it gave her them.

Her body ached still and craved sleep, but she didn’t want to put either one of the boys down. They were addicting—the silky smoothness of their skin, the smell of their peach-soft heads, the weight of their bodies against hers.

All fears of them inheriting her powers and of the complicated world they’d have to deal with were gone. It was just Wanda and Vision and their boys. Nothing else mattered but the people in that hospital room and the way they made everything in her life brighter already.

Billy’s face crumbled, and he opened his weary eyes, looking around the brightly lit room. He whined for a second before letting out a loud wail, mouth so wide that Wanda could see all of his shiny pink gums.

It caused a domino effect. The loud screams from Billy woke up Tommy, who responded in kind with loud screams of his own, and Vision tried desperately to soothe his child’s fears while Wanda pulled down the thin fabric of her hospital gown and exposed her breast. Billy’s head turned toward her, mouth open and searching, before he finally latched on and his screams were silenced. Eventually, Tommy’s were silenced, too, and his eyes closed and his breathing slowed as his father paced around the hospital room with him.

Wanda watched him parent, watched the expression of utter admiration that had completely transformed her husband’s face, and despite her aching abdomen, her sore nipples, every muscle in her body screaming for sleep—Wanda Maximoff was happier than she could ever remember being.

When they’d reluctantly placed their sons in their cribs for the night, Wanda and Vision let themselves rest. 

He crawled onto her skinny hospital bed and placed a gentle hand on her stomach, careful for the tender spots. They shared the pillow, his forehead against her cheek.  
“I never thought I’d have children,” she confided in him.

“Is that so?” His breath was cool on her face.

“I was too scared. Of the pregnancy and the labor. Then, as I got older, I was scared of what their lives would be like in a place like Sokovia. I worried they’d have to watch their parents die like I did and spend their teenage years in a country that was falling apart.”

“What changed your mind?”

The heaviness in her chest brought tears to her eyes. “You.” She could barely say the word, her voice was so thick, and she felt an inexplicable pang of grief in her gut.

He took a moment before responding. “You know, I didn’t think I was capable of having children,” he explained. “I assumed Ultron wouldn’t have included that in my coding given his intentions for this body, so I never gave parenthood any thought. But the night you told me you were pregnant…” He turned her face toward him. “I found my truest purpose in life.”

He leaned forward and kissed her lips, deeply, cupping her face as their lips parted together. She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that before she drifted to sleep in his arms.

. . .

The “Welcome Home, New Maximoff Twins” party had been Natasha and Laura’s idea. They’d been desperate to see the infants, and after nearly a month of seclusion, they’d taken matters into their own hands.

Wanda was only mildly surprised when Natasha had burst into their house on a Friday morning with a backpack slung over her shoulder and a smirk on her lips. Laura strode in behind her, having the decency to look mildly sheepish. “I’m gonna go wash my hands,” Nat had announced, “and then I’m gonna come back and give you a break from parenting, and _then_ , come hell or high water, we’re helping you plan this baby shower.”

She’d kept her promise.

The house wasn’t overly decorated, nothing akin to the over-the-top parties celebrities tended to throw for such occasions, but there were multicolored banners on the walls welcoming Tommy and Billy into the world, a food table and a matching dessert table as wide as their dining room, and a mini mountain of gifts tucked into the corner by the couch. Perfectly coiled streamers hung down from the ceiling, little plastic pacifiers tied to the bottoms. Clint had taken a photo of Wanda (looking very much in need of sleep) and Vision (looking very much in awe) cradling their boys and had it blown up and hung on the wall, visible to all as soon as they walked in.

Wanda had rolled her eyes at every mention of the party, insisting that it wasn’t necessary to drag everyone down to Virginia for a baby shower, but now, standing in the midst of it, surrounded by nearly every person who’d ever shown her love and acceptance and kindness, she couldn’t say she disliked the concept.

Vision stood beside her and people-watched. “I never much understood the purpose of parties like this,” Vision told her. “They seemed quite unnecessary, requiring others to buy gifts and attend a celebration all in your honor. It struck me as self-centered.” He watched intently as Pietro rocked Tommy a little faster than Vision was capable of doing; the infant looked more content than his parents had ever seen him. “But now… Now I understand.” He smiled at his wife.

“I _guess_ ,” she began reluctantly, “that I’m glad Nat and Laura threw this together. It’s nice to have everyone here.” She took a long sip from her paper cup. There were tiny storks on it holding up a baby blanket that read “it’s a boy.” Nat had taken a sharpie and added an “s” to the end of “boy” on every one.

“You’ve missed them.”

Wanda stared down at the contents of her cup—neon pink liquid, frothy bubbles coating the surface, a glob of orange sherbet peeking through the foam like a sweet, melting iceberg. “I have.” It wasn’t that she didn’t want to admit to missing her teammates, but it felt like an insult to her husband and her children. She’d given up her Avengers life to begin this new life with them, and she never wanted them to doubt her commitment to the little slice of life they’d created together.

But she _did_ miss it. She missed the Avengers compound, she missed Steve and Sam and Nat’s warmth as she transitioned to her life in America, she missed Clint’s shows of paternal love for her, she missed training with them and going on missions and proving to every naysayer that she deserved to be among their ranks.

“I miss them as well,” Vision told her. She could see it written on his face—a nostalgic longing for what they’d once had. “I love our home, but it feels like we’re missing a fraction of our family.”

Wanda turned to watch as her friends—her _family_ —mingled. Laura Barton tenderly ran her fingers along Billy’s forehead, as Lila peered over her mother’s shoulder, wiggling her fingers in front of Billy’s face to amuse him. He cooed and reached for her fingers, tiny hand gripping one tightly, stronger than he looked.

Clint raced around the house with Cooper and Nate, and the younger one squealed excitedly, occasionally pausing so his father could catch him and shower him with tickles and kisses.

Bruce stood by the punch, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his small nose, and Nat leaned against the food table, eating while she chatted with him.

Steve, Tony, Sam, and Rhodey chatted in a small circle, the pain caused from the group’s previous rift long forgotten. It was especially sweet to see them together, to see that that gap had been bridged. To see them happy.

With a blur and a slight breeze, Pietro came to stand on Wanda’s other side. “I have the magic touch,” he told her, motioning to her sleeping son. The conversations and music hadn’t even made him stir. 

“You want to watch him all night for me?” Wanda asked. “Since you have the magic touch.”

“I mean, I don’t know if it’s _that_ magical.”

Wanda snorted.

“Why aren’t you two talking to your guests?” Pietro asked. “This party is for you, not us.”

“We will,” Vision assured him. “We just wanted a few moments to take everything in.”

“It is…” Pietro fingered the streamer that dangled in his face. “... a lot.” 

“I love it,” Wanda whispered, voice suddenly thick with emotions, and she cleared her throat to keep them at bay. “I never thought I’d see everyone here like this.”

“Why not?” Pietro questioned.

“Because…” She paused, uncertain of exactly why.

“Because most of us are dead now?” Vision answered for her, so matter-of-fact that it made Wanda’s chest tighten.

The voices in the room distorted, their conversations melting into gibberish, a cacophony of smooth vowels and harsh consonants that didn’t mean anything. Their bodies flickered like static on a television.

Tony Stark screamed as his skin burned up, turning to melted flesh and decay. When Nat turned to Wanda, her face was pale and bloodied, and when she parted her lips to speak, a deluge of dark black sludge poured from her mouth. 

Vision dropped to his knees beside Wanda, hitting the ground hard, and let out a soft gasp. “It’s alright,” he told her, staring up at her. “I love you.” Gold streams of light crackled across his face. “You could never hurt me,” he told her. “But you killed me.”

“Enough!” Wanda screamed, and a burst of red shot from her hands and seeped into the bodies of the Avengers surrounding her. They glowed red from the inside out, so brightly that Wanda could do nothing but stare, and then—

A new song started, and Tony let out a whoop in reaction, pestering an unamused Rhodey to sing along with him. Natasha placed a soft hand on Bruce’s arm. The Barton boys piled on their father, who pretended to howl in pain but mostly just laughed.

“I think it would behoove us to visit New York sometime soon,” Vision told Pietro. “It would be nice to spend a few days back at the compound.”

Silent tears crept down Wanda’s face, collecting in the soft neckline of her shirt, and her body twitched and trembled. Neither Vision nor Pietro seemed to notice.

There was a deafening knock on their front door, and all eyes turned toward it. The music dimmed, and the lights in the house flickered. The knocking grew louder. An unexplainable dread grew in her stomach, eating away at her.

“You know it’s him,” Pietro told her, and some part of herself that she’d buried deep inside knew that he was right. “You can’t avoid them any longer, _mišiću_.” He sounded so much like their mother.

Wanda took her time reaching the front door. As her hand touched the cool metal knob, the room fell to a dead silence; she turned to look at her guests to find that everyone but Vision had disappeared. She could hear the twins shrieking somewhere, but she couldn’t see them.

Her heart sped up, and with eyes blazing red, Wanda pulled open the front door.

Clint Barton stood on their front porch, dressed in civilian clothing. His hair had been shaved on the sides, grown long on top and slicked back. His face was worn and aged, like he’d been to hell and back between playing with his children in her living room to standing on her doorstep. His long sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and Wanda could make out a collection of tattoos that crept down to his left hand.

Whoever the man was, he wasn’t Clint Barton—not the one she knew.

He seemed just as surprised to see her. “Wanda, I’ve been trying to—” He took a step forward, but Vision drifted through the room and came to stop between them.

“Clint, it would be best—b-b-best—it would be b—Clint,” Vision stuttered, short-circuiting. “Why did you—Clint—it would be—you did—why—come—here?”

“What are you doing to him?” Wanda’s voice was thunderous, and her hands and eyes glowed red.

Clint’s face crumpled as he stared at Vision. “Wanda, what did you do?”

“Stop whatever you’re doing to him,” she demanded.

Clint reached out to touch him, hand coming to rest on Vision’s chest, and he let out a soft gasp as he made contact. Without a second thought, Wanda’s powers curled around his wrist and palm, bending his hand back until the pain was so severe that Clint stumbled backward.

“Where are the rest of them?” Wanda stepped in front of her malfunctioning husband, towering over the man.

Clint gritted his teeth. “The rest of who?”

“The Avengers.” Her chest felt so tight that she worried her breathing might stop, that her chest might cave in, that her heart might explode. Something weighed heavy on her, so heavy that she feared she’d collapse in on herself until there was nothing left of her. “Natasha, Steve, Tony, Bruce, Pietro—all of them. Where are they?”

Tears filled Clint’s eyes, and he sucked in a deep breath, steadying himself against the pain. “If we go inside, I can explain everything to you, okay? Let’s just—”

“Where are they? What did you do with them?” Her voice was hysterical, she could hear it and knew she needed to calm down, but it felt like every nerve ending in her body was on fire and there was no stopping it now. She couldn’t control herself. It was Newton’s First Law of Motion; an object will stay in motion unless acted upon by an unstoppable force. And Clint was too weak to stop whatever was happening to her.

“Please, Wanda, let’s take a deep breath and talk about—”

Red tendrils curled around his neck, squeezing until his words stopped and his veins popped and blood pooled in his face, turning it red, as red as her powers.

He was out within seconds, head sagging and body relaxing, and Wanda let go, watching him crumple in a heap in front of her.

“Clint, it would be best if you left,” Vision finished helplessly, staring ahead at nothing in particular.

Wanda gasped for air as her husband looked down and took in the pathetic form of their teammate. “Ah,” he said simply. “Well, it seems you must be getting to work. I’ll watch over the twins while you interrogate the intruder.” He floated into the back room without another word.

Wanda watched as her powers curled around Clint’s legs and dragged him over the threshold, down the hallway, out of sight. She closed the front door with a slam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, just like that, Wanda's life got a little happier and then promptly fell apart.
> 
> I hope you're enjoying this little story so far! I'm having so much fun writing it (as you can probably tell by the quick turnaround between the last chapter and this one)! If you _are_ enjoying it, then please leave a comment below; your responses and thoughts are what keep me writing! Plus, I just want to hear your theories about what might happen next!


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